


Introduction

by DankGoon



Series: Unforsaken [1]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Amnesia, CYOA, Gen, Multiple Endings, Reader-Insert, Work In Progress, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:34:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23051047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DankGoon/pseuds/DankGoon
Summary: The introduction to the female Reader character, some back story, abilities, and a sample of how the choices will work. Highly recommended before reading the routes. There is no love interest option in this portion.
Series: Unforsaken [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656541
Kudos: 5





	1. Initiation

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a CYOA! It's a bit wordy, though with future parts (especially with actual routes) I'm expecting much more dialogue and action rather than just me describing what each stone looks like lol-

You first reach consciousness when you begin to feel the cold, hard surface beneath you. Is it beneath? Or only a matter of perception? 

The pain in your side is unbearable, and you struggle to crack one eye open, while the other’s lid remains glued to whatever you lay upon. The cool numbs the pressure.

Darkness is all you see for a moment before it slowly clears away. Tears begin to form as your eye burns with a mixture of irritation and fatigue, so you squeeze it shut and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. It comes out ragged, and as you try to draw another breath in your side screeches in pain again. You have no clue what might be broken, but something definitely is. 

Eventually your mind clears enough for you to grow tired of the cold and the pain. You manage to open your eye again and attempt to move your hand. It’s as though your body and brain forgot how to act as one, but at some point you notice a finger twitch, a few centimetres away from your face. It takes you a longer time to realize it is your own. _Good_ , at least something is still functional. 

As feeling begins to return to your hand, you become conscious of something underneath it. A small, hard object. You concentrate and will your fingers to slowly curl around it, but your senses are numb and you don’t notice your fingertips curling into the tiles before they begin to ache. On your second attempt, you succeed in turning your wrist to expose the object. It is a small pendant made of some sort of polished white material, and a beautiful purple gem is embedded in the middle. You stare at it, watch as an unnatural light swirls inside, as if alive and taunting you. You clutch the pendant as you snap out of the trance, and your brow furrows slightly.

You recognize the artifact as a relic of magic, one that belonged—and still does—to you. But you can’t seem to recall anything beyond its powers and function. Rather, you can’t seem to recall _anything_ before the current events. 

_Who am I?_

Indeed, who are you? You rack your muddled mind for any purchase, and only remember some word that sounds foreign when you breathe it out. You believe it’s your own name, but are not completely certain. You clutch to the notion, and hold it to heart.

It is your single solace in the void of your memories.

You groan in exasperation and agony as you steer your mind away from chaos. There are more important things to worry about.

Once your fingers have begun to move, getting the rest of your body to cooperate is much easier, although it still took you some time to get your lefts and rights into coordination. But as you try to prop yourself up, you find yourself sprawling back into a mess on the stone tiles, and yelp out in pain. 

Whatever that’s broken in your right side has managed to poke elsewhere, and you can practically _feel_ your blood gush from the wound. You feel your body flush in panic, and let out a raspy groan as you bend your knees and slowly roll onto your aching forearms and shins. 

A glance south and you can see red blossoming on the side of your shirt. You inhale and exhale deeply as you strain to sit up—you might have a broken leg, too—and lift the fabric to examine your side wound. 

It’s a mess of blood and grime, smeared across your entire right side and abdomen, and you consider yourself hallucinating when you catch a glance of what looks like bone poking out. Your mind may be muddy—memory and blood loss—but you are sane enough to know that’s not supposed to be there, and feel your jaw quivering in anxiety. You quickly cover the wound with your hand, trying to ignore everything that’s out of place, and apply pressure, silently wishing your insides would return to normal.

You force yourself to picture the dissection of the human anatomy in your mind, etching the memory of nothing but knowledge to the forefront of your brain, and through closed eyes begin to see a vivid motion picture of bones and organs shifting from fatal damage back to perfection.

There is no magic more sophisticated than your own.

As you clutch the pendant tighter in your other hand, you chant your wish enough times to begin to feel a burning sensation in your stomach. It hurts, as if your flesh is being torn apart from the inside. You gasp and cry in agony and your body jolts forward in reaction, but you remain seated on the cold tiles. You have anticipated this, but you can’t have known in your state how bad it would really be.

Then, the burn slowly spreads towards the wound but never decreases in intensity, rather, it is only growing worse, and your stomach churns at the distinct feeling of your flesh _moving_. Bile burns your throat and you cough up nothing but acid, your body going haywire at the unfamiliar and very much gruesome experience. But your muscles obey the force, and the abnormal movements drift along your stomach, pulse up into your chest, racking your rib cage, until you can no longer feel your own rib jutting out your side as it settles back where it belongs. Compared to this, the throb in your leg is left forgotten. 

Uncontrollable coughs escape you as you let out a breath you’d held for too long, and you nearly collapse into your own puke as you come down from the pain. Tears and sweat stream down your cheeks as you curl into a ball, trying to catch your breath while wails continue to be choked out. The burn in your stomach slowly dies down, leaving behind an ache that jolts your muscles whenever your lungs fill with and release air.

How could living feel so terrible?

After what feels like an eternity in your solitude, you manage to gather yourself on all fours once again, but freeze in your tracks when you notice you can see the veins in your hands, as if painted on your skin in navy ink. You clench your jaw and stare with wide eyes at your wrinkled skin and flesh, appearing to grow translucent. Thin strands of white hair fall to the tiles, and you realize they are your own, while thin streaks of purple energy course through your arms, pulling towards you. Seeing light, you glance at the pendant in your hand.

The gem glows.

Immediately, you know that something is wrong. Certainly, your magic requires more energy than most, but this… this is _killing_ you to keep you alive, draining your lifeforce to keep you from dying of injury. It’s wrong—deathly inefficient and counterintuitive—and although your injuries are healed, you are suddenly aware that should this happen again you _will_ die from overexertion of your energy. If your body does not fail you first, that is, as you can already feel your limbs losing strength. Your memory remains foggy, but the magic is—should be—your second nature. Even you find yourself unable to accept that you would make such a mistake.

Or, perhaps there is no mistake at all.

 _Regardless_ , the necessity of survival above all else kicks in by instinct, and you know you will need to feed on something to sustain your flesh, and fast.

Even though your entire body is sore, tired, and drenched in a cold sweat, you collect your sobs and look around you for the first time since awakening. The place is dim and shadowy, but your eyes have adjusted since you’ve first opened them, and you can vaguely make out the walls of the spacious area. It appears to be a large, circular room of sorts, with smooth, tall walls leading up to a single faint light source far overhead. The tiles under you are surprisingly polished and unchipped, so you figure this room must either be new or not have been used in a long time. It is unfamiliar, but not entirely foreign either—like a long-lost memory. One that you can’t seem to remember.

You are not stupid enough to attempt standing in your current condition and risk falling again. After pulling the pendant around your neck, you crawl to the edge of the room and support yourself on wobbly legs with the help of the wall. At least you _can_ stand, so all is not lost quite yet. Just then, you realize what is so utterly wrong with this place.

There’s no door.

But even before you could begin to panic at the lack of escape route, your mind—strangely wise—demands that you consider this place further, so you do. _A structure like this, so meticulously built, cannot be without purpose_ , and having purpose means access in or out in some way that’s not the hole in the inconceivable ceiling. 

_I must have fallen through that hole above_ , you think. It may explain your injuries, but you throw those speculations behind you, and contemplate on using the opening for escape. There must be something here that could help you leave, and that hopefully does not involve climbing.

You look down and examine the lines between the tiles, having little success in finding anything useful with the poor lighting. You manage to pace around the room once, and decide that there does not seem to be anything of interest on the walls, either. What else could there be?

As you reach the end of the circle—back to the beginning, you catch on to something not odd, but perhaps worth investigating: the lines in the tiles, though sharp and neat, seem to be crooked. Upon closer inspection you realize this due to the arrangement of tiles. They don’t form rings like a perfectionist would prefer, but rather appear to be a spiral.

You hardly consider yourself a master of rituals—or perhaps the “you” that you consciously note you can’t recall was—but you reckon that when there’s a circular room and a spiral it often occurs that the center is meaningful. And so as you crawl your way to the middle, you are barely surprised to find a few engravings in the tiles. They look like simple geometrical shapes with strange pictures etched inside. Something in your subconscious mind clicks into place as you look over them once again.

“ _Nal… Cor… Shol…_ ” You read softly, feeling that the words roll off your tongue _just right_ as you move on to the next shape.

Runes.

This place must be _old_ , to be using runes for incantations. Well, you are not entirely sure of the antiquity--so where did the notion of time come from?--but you are as grateful as you are terrified that as your fingers brush over the drawings you feel a slight rumble in the earth. Then, the lines between the stone tiles begin to glow weakly and the ground moves. You can’t help but yelp when the motion pushes upwards, and a rising platform takes spiraling shape underneath you as other portions of the tiled foundation breaks off. 

_“ Runic magic: a mechanism that triggers upon the combination of the right chants and the right symbols. ”_

Frankly, that’s all that you know, because the old magic has long since been replaced by more efficient spellcasting, and after the Rune Wars became all but forgotten. Although you are not certain how long exactly it must have been—since, of course, you have no memory of anything of the sort—but you deem yourself well-versed enough in the latter to consider runes powerful yet archaic. At the very least, their essence is useless to you at this time. Nonetheless, the raw magic fascinates you.

And you are just as horrified to realize you can vaguely distinguish the outline of the bones in your forearms now. _Does runic magic require my own energy too?_

You take a deep breath and look down in a mixture of curiosity and fear, and see that the platform you sit upon is actually a pillar that grows, and the bottom of it all becomes less and less visible as you are lifted. More pieces of stone and earth break from the main pillar and tumble into the abyss, and you briefly wonder what the room could have been used for. Unfortunately, the structure’s age is no match for the power of the runes, and you brace yourself as the walls collapse around you, shedding more debris everywhere.

You just wish you could make it to the top before you are buried alive.

At that moment, a sudden fear strikes you, stealing your breath away and freezing you in place. 

The feeling of being impaled through the stomach as heavy mounds of dirt rain from above. They bind your arms and legs, suppress your voice and blind you, halting your breath until you implode and nothing is heard but the ringing of isolation. 

A terrible screech rips through the air, and you realize it is your own.

 _A hallucination?_ You scratch at your neck and chest, trying to breathe, while your gaze darts around frantically and your mind settles. You are in a dark, open hall of sorts, though from what you can distinguish more than half of the place is in ruins. Through a crack in the stone wall on the other side, the golden light of day peers in.

It seems you have reached the surface.

_[ Go to **Divergence** ]_


	2. Divergence

As you let out a sigh of relief, your shoulders slump and you almost fall forward onto your face. Subconsciously, you glance at your limbs. The growing transparency of your flesh is becoming unnerving. Your eyes threaten to close, but your instincts tell you that if you rest now you might never wake again, and the thought forces you to stay conscious, even if for just a little longer.

You press your cheek against what remains of the tiles of the pillar from the crypt below, and let the coolness calm your skin and nerves. The pillar that rose seems to have sealed off the hole and whatever secrets the crypt might have held, but you convince yourself that it does not matter to you. Instead, your eyes tiredly scan your present surroundings.

The building within which you lay is almost as dark as the crypt below. You would have suspected you are still beneath the surface if not for the slightest hint of sunlight peeking between old, worn-out bricks. The risen pillar has left you in a rather confined space, composed of little more than rubble of what you can only guess used to be a grand castle of sorts. Large stone columns have been thrown sideways and overtop each other by the elements, and without support the enormous roof had collapsed on itself, trapping you and other parts of the structure underneath it. You would probably hit your head if you are to stand to your full height.

Away from where the risen pillar meets the surface, sand surrounds the area. You drag a hand over the grains, which are coarse and hard, but at least are dry and give way when you apply more pressure. 

Not far ahead, you can vaguely make out more substantial walls that have suffered less destruction. The bits of sunlight allows this, and as you begin to wonder if there may be people on the other side, your stomach grumbles again, and you with it.

You are hungry.

As you force yourself up—your body still struggles in agony against your will—you look around for a way to get out. There are a few spaces between the debris that look big enough for a cat to fit through, but certainly not for you. You make an attempt to push a few things around to make more space for an opening of sorts, but the shelter of ruin clatters in protest to the movement. And when some dust and sand fall on you from above, you decide that’s enough of trying your luck. You have just barely escaped with all your life from the dungeon below; you would not do well to be crushed by the giant pieces of castle now.

As you ponder your options in silence, you take the time to examine yourself--in particular, your clothes. The loose, white linen shirt is soiled by your lost blood, and is uncomfortably cold and sticky to the touch. You’ll most likely discard it as soon as possible, but for now there is nothing else to wear, and human decency aside you need protection from the environment, and it is  _ cold _ in here. On your legs are light and baggy pants, with a large rip in the side of the left leg that leaves cool air blowing in whenever you move. Leather ankle boots that are too big for your feet complete the set, and no matter how you look at your attire  _ nothing _ fits. Honestly, it’s as if a mother dressed her younger daughter in her older’s hand-me-downs.

Something’s not right. But you brush it off when you notice a strip of cloth clinging between a stone slab and a wooden pillar on the side. It takes you a moment to realize that came from your pants. Is that where you fell from? You have no recollection of any of it. The only contribution that observation has made is helping you set eyes on another opening just above the sand. 

Feeling a glimmer of hope, your hands begin their careful work immediately. The digging is tedious and has you sweating, but the action also helps you to coordinate and warm up. Your body is beginning to feel a little more comfortable, but you don’t let your guard down against fatigue just yet. Eventually you succeed in shoveling out just enough sand to allow yourself to snake through the hole, and once out you lay on your back against the ground and rest your muscles for a while.

When you finally decide to get up again, you kick off the offending boots and take in your surroundings once more. You seem to be standing in the corner of a hall belonging to a keep of sorts, although at the bend the rest of the structure is now nothing but a mountain of rubble. The ruins stack so high that the top is unseen from where you stand, most likely piling up above the roof of what’s left of the hall, and blocks the sunlight from directly pouring in. However, it does manage through the various cracks and crevices of the worn-out walls and debris, and with the light you can see much better.

There is not much worthwhile inside the hall save for broken statues and ancient benches littered around, and as you barely touch the foot of a statue it shatters into nothing but white dust. You immediately back away and wait in silence for something else to happen, but all is calm.

For now, at least.

Once you are certain that nothing will break on a whim, you crouch and touch some of the dust that fell. It’s hardly distinguishable from the sandy surroundings but you instinctively find the specks, even in the dark. And, unlike the sand, the dust is soft with an ash-like texture. You feel a strange sense of nostalgia hit home, picturing fleeting scenes of forests, mountains, and a great bastion. Different faces appear for the briefest of moments, all so distant but like they are a  _ part _ of you. Tears well up in your eyes as you realize they are not memories of your own, but everything disappears before you can grasp any of it.

_ “ They used to erect statues of ashes, so the true heroes are never forgotten. ” _

You wipe your eyes and turn away as the woe dissipates from your emotions as quickly as it came. In a corner next to the pile of wreckage out of which you crawled, you spot a sack of sorts that’s so blatantly out of place that you can’t help but approach it. Once close, you note that it’s actually a nice pack adorned with numerous clasps and pouches that are too form-over-function for your liking. Too bad for the slash in the front spilling half its contents, though, else you might have considered taking it for yourself. Nonetheless, you loot what’s left, and find yourself rather satisfied with your findings.

There’s a change of shirt and underwear, and although they are still too big for you they will do much better than your current dirty and bloody clothes. A half-empty waterskin is your next finding, along with a greased paper pouch holding what looks like dried meat. You figure these must belong to you, since the clothing sizes are consistent with what you presently don, and there doesn’t appear to be additional signs of life in this forsaken place. At least the clothing is comfortable. You make quick work of the clothes and food, quickly filling that restless hunger of yours and feeling much better in your own skin already. Your arms slowly revert from translucent to regular-looking flesh and you no longer feel ancient, so you consider yourself nursed back to good health by the rations. Afterwards, you dump out the remainder of the bag’s contents.

A small cloth pouch falls out, soon followed by a dagger sheathed in leather. You shake the bag a little more, but there seems to be nothing else left inside, so you toss the broken sack and examine what’s left. 

The little purse holds, along with a few distinct gold and silver pieces, some coins with identical engravings of pictures you don’t recall ever having seen—which is not very useful. You can’t quite figure out whether they’re made of metal or stone, but they are polished and clean so perhaps they are somehow meaningful. A beautiful but extremely extravagant letter ‘L’ is intricately embroidered on the pouch in golden thread, but it doesn’t ring anything of importance to you. The dagger has a wide, curved blade that’s slightly longer than your hand and tapers to a sharp tip. There isn’t much decoration on the weapon, making it look rather plain against the coins and pouch. Despite the obvious age that’s worn down the fabric around the hilt, the blade is sharp as ever. You use it to cut away the useless flaps that remain of your pants, reducing them to shorts that barely cover your underwear, and then pocket everything you can manage. As for the dagger, you make do with the scrap cloth and secure it to the back of your hips.

As you slowly walk around the mound of rubble in search of anything else to salvage, you can’t help but feel that there is magic in this area, but it is only a tingle in your senses. With the odd sense of familiarity you’d felt back in the crypt, you begin to suspect that there is something worth your time in this place. Maybe it’d even help with your poor memory, but that may be a far fetch.

Your contemplations are interrupted when you notice a crack along the wall that you don’t recall seeing before. Your brows furrow slightly, but you jump in shock when it suddenly grows an extra branch, and in the next moment a block of stone bursts from the crack.

Your legs bolt into action before your mind can process the walls collapsing, and you run in the opposite direction as fast as you can. You almost trip on the sand at first, but the adrenaline in your veins push you forward to the other end of the hall, while quick on your tail the building falls apart. If you relent even a second to catch your footing, you’ll surely be buried under.

As you near the end of the hall, you skid to a stop before the set of tall, heavy-looking doors, and without another thought press your weight against one.  _ Ow _ , bad idea. The door doesn’t budge. You pull on it instead, and as it opens despair washes over you.

And a shit ton of sand.

The illusion of being on the surface is shattered as you take in how deep beneath these ruins are. You spin on your heel, but the destruction is catching up quick. More and more stone and beams tumble down into the sand, and you are struck with the revelation that you are left with only two options.

_ You dive into the wall of sand outside the doors. With any luck, you could avoid being hit by the debris, and you might be able to dig your way out of here. [ Go to **Sand** ] _

_ You run back into the collapsing castle. You’re gutsy to think you can cross the path of raining debris back to where you came from, and you put faith in your magic to keep yourself safe. [ Go to **Cross** ] _


	3. Sand

_You dive into the wall of sand outside the doors. With any luck, you could avoid being hit by the debris, and you might be able to dig your way out of here._

You have to hold your breath as you do this, but the sand still gets everywhere. You only realize how terrible of an idea this was when you try to climb the slope forming at the doorway and your legs find almost no footing. The little time you have feels lost as you scramble your way up the dune with agonizingly slow success. Your hands can barely reach the top of the doorway when you look back and see that entire face of wall about to collapse.

Horrified, you take a deep breath, close your eyes, and plunge yourself as quick as possible into the dune. 

Fortunately for you, you do not feel any heavy pieces of rubble fall on top of you while you are still practically buried in the sand. Your legs don’t make it very far under, and as you try to push yourself forward and up your feet find purchase on a stone slab that’s fallen. Well, you can only assume so, since you can’t see. Your breath is still being held, and you mentally curse yourself for doing this. Your body can barely move an inch under the heavy, packed sand. You begin to question how much is left between you and the surface.

Time is running out, and you can’t seem to find a way out of the trap you put yourself in.

You…

_Push yourself upward as much as you can. [ Go to **Push** ] _

_Stop struggling to contemplate the situation. [Go to **Contemplate** ] _


	4. Cross

_ You run back into the collapsing castle. You’re gutsy to think you can cross the path of raining debris back to where you came from, and you put faith in your magic to keep yourself safe. _

What on Runeterra gave you  _ such _ an idea? What do _you_ know of magic to make that claim, anyway?

Nonetheless, you crease your brows in focus and jump back into the fray. 

You barely dash two steps ahead before a fallen stone has you stumbling backwards. A few smaller pieces clatter in suit, and you raise your arms in useless defense.

Instinctively, your magic floods from you. It almost pulls apart the flesh in your arms as energy whips out violently, and as if magnetized the dust of the shattered statues is drawn to the tendrils, glueing and binding together into substantial spikes. They briefly shield you against the debris immediately above you, but as one of the spikes cracks and shatters back into dust you realize you still have to escape, so you keep running. You try to gain control of the large, magical barbs as you do, but in the frenzy you find no avail, however as another beam falls from above and your body can’t catch up in time to react, one of the spikes swats it to the side before dissipating.

You don’t take time to think it any deeper, and instead keep dodging anything you can as you take a few more strides forward. Most of the smaller pieces of rubble are deflected by the ash-spikes as soon as you acknowledge them, though as you near the end of your run--the initial mound of ruins is mere seconds away--a giant block tumbles down from it and lands firmly in the sand centimeters before you. You nearly squash yourself against the thing, and the spikes disintegrate as they crash into the stone.

You cry in pain of impact, but reflexively continue to brace yourself against any more falling rocks. Fortunately, you have already sprinted past the wave of collapsing building, and all that hits you are smaller pieces of gravel and crust. When you finally come to, you groan at the fire burning in your arms and legs, but are somewhat pleased to not see any severe injuries or transparency in your flesh.

It takes you a moment to realize that sunlight has finally flooded down here. It's blinding, but comforting, too. Without the roof above, everything is now so much clearer to see, and you take a moment to catch your breath before beginning the climb out of the ruins.

_ At last, the surface. _

You have survived, and emerge a little stronger.

_ [ Go to **Convergence** ] _


	5. Push

_Push yourself upward as much as you can._

You will your limbs to push as much as you can physically manage, but the sand doesn’t budge no matter how hard you try. Your breath runs out and your body reacts by forcing you to draw air in, but all there is is sand. As it fills your stomach and lungs with searing pain, your consciousness slips away as your soul is detached from your body, and you join the sand and all it’s taken away. 

_There are some rules you cannot defy. Sometimes, a try is all it takes to send you under._

You have died.

[ **BE - Death Shows no Mercy** ]

[ **_Start Over?_** ]


	6. Contemplate

_ Stop struggling to contemplate the situation. _

You pause your movements and try to calm yourself as much as possible. You remain sandwiched by the grains but your mind soon recalls that you have a handy tool called “magic”.

But, alas, you don’t know how your magic can help nor whether you have enough energy, and you’re not certain you want to test the consequences again. However, you don’t really have much of a choice, do you?

Being isolated in the dark has its advantages, and right now it allows you to be at peace with your senses as it tries to connect your magic to anything else out there. In the back of your mind, you begin to recall the ashes in the hall.  _ Now would be a useful time for them. _

You squeeze your eyes shut tightly against the hard sand, and let pure will take over in reaching for the statues back inside the hall. Although your magic flows and your physical senses begin to lose grip to focus on your spiritual reach, you remain aware that heat escapes your body just as your magic seeps.  _ Not a good sign _ , but you neglect the growing cold. Through your magic, you feel the particles  _ everywhere _ in the ruins. The statues must surely have been destroyed by the building’s collapse, but you can still use their power. More specifically, the power of the ashes.

Your magic finds the ashes and binds them together into spines that slither between the crevices of the ruins, and drive them through the sand like needles in fabric. Just before your breath runs out, you weave the spines in the sand above you and lift. The dune is heavy, but you manage to create a tunnel that leads above.

You gasp as you can suddenly move again and your lungs fill with air. Some sand does get into your mouth but you are too relieved to care. As you can still feel some grains clinging to your face you keep your eyes shut, and scramble forwards on limbs that can barely feel. Sand quickly shifts from the top and sides of the tunnel to pool at your feet and close off the exit. You soon find yourself as if swimming through it in a race to the surface, the movements only made more difficult by your numb arms as warmth slowly returns to them. Behind your eyelids you can see the brightness of day, but soon dimming as more and more sand fills in the space ahead.

You are still not as fast as the natural forces. 

But you are not despaired this time, for you have felt the light and can still manage to paddle the sand around, a little at a time. You are still holding on to your last breath when your hand suddenly finds no more resistance, and soon the rest of you with it.

You are gasping for breath once again, feeling more grateful than ever for the air surrounding you. The light is absolutely blinding, but you’ve never felt happier to bask in its warmth.

_ At last, the surface. _

You have survived, and emerge a little stronger.

_ [ Go to **Convergence** ] _


	7. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of the Introduction section is finally done! I hope you liked it, and hopefully the routes will be out soon~

Despite your strong desire to simply lie upon the warm sand forever―return to the earth, as they say―the heat _does_ begin to make you feel uncomfortable. Mentally, you curse yourself for not bringing the scrapped sack―it could have been used to shield you against the enormous sun in the sky. You force yourself on your knees and use your hands as makeshift visors to look around. 

Dunes dominate the landscape, as you expect. Close to where you sit, you can still make out traces of where the ruins used to be, with a few pieces of stone jutting out here and there. In the not-so-distant distance, there are a few more look-alike structures, and for a brief moment you contemplate whether it would be an intelligent decision to approach. 

Arguably, stay any longer in the sun and you might turn into barbeque, so you make the temporary decision to rest in the shade of one such building. The walk is longer than you imagined, but you make it there in one piece. 

A few stacked columns make a high ground at the structure, which you climb after a breather. From there, you get a much better view past the dunes.

What appears to be a patch of green lies at the end of the horizon, and judging by the sun’s movements you guess it is towards the north. There is really no other place for you to possibly go to sustain yourself―in this desert, you’ll certainly starve or die of thirst if you remain here. You discard the worry that it might be a mirage, and march on.

Luck seems to be on your side. After what felt like a gruesome eternity, the patch is finally within physical grasp, and what you originally thought was mere shrubbery turns out to be a small oasis. You practically jump in joy.

The location, unsurprisingly, is currently occupied by what you believe is a band of nomads. People are gathered around the water, and enormous _dormun_ beasts chew on the foliage slowly. You would have been more cautious in approaching if you did not see the women and children sitting along a few elderlies. The men are quick to be on alert by your arrival, speaking quickly in a language that is familiar, but that you don’t quite understand. It’s too fast, perhaps, and sounds like a dialect of something you vaguely recognize.

On the other hand, you barely remember how to speak, and with your mouth as arid as the surrounding landscape your words are raspy, incomprehensible garbles. “Water,” you choke out. 

Reluctantly, and only after confirming that you’re unarmed, they let you access to the waterhole, where you nearly dunk your head in. The water is cool and sweet, deliciously refreshing against your skin. After hydrating yourself, you spew out a word of thanks, though they look awkward at your presence.

“You have had drink. Now you go,” one of the men steps forward and says, still eyeing you suspiciously, and those are the only words you recognize out of his much more complicated speech.

A young woman walks up and speaks to him sharply before looking in your direction with an expression of sympathy. You can’t catch up with what she’s saying to understand a single word. You return her gaze pleadingly, and she says something to him again rather loudly. The man turns his head, pauses, and stalks off. She then walks to you and helps you up, a gesture to which you smile gratefully. The others in the crowd don’t say anything, but you know they are watching. 

“No water, no food,” the young woman remarks, eyeing you, and again you can just barely make out what she means. Her brows furrow slightly. “In the desert, you die.” 

You briefly wonder how big this desert must be, then nod at her words and thank her for her kindness in a stutter, “My gratitude to you.”

She looks a bit taken aback by your words, but nonetheless smiles again as she guides you to where the others are sitting. You smile at them apologetically as you excuse yourself for the intrusion as they shuffle to make way for you―or perhaps out of caution. “You speak in tongue of Shurima, but you are not from Shurima,” the girl then adds, tilting her head.

“Shurima?” Your eyes widen at the familiar name, catching it instantly. Where have you heard it before? Is the language you speak―recognize―Shuriman? She must be referring to your babble. And the ruins, they certainly held a shred of familiarity in them as well, yet you don’t recognize them nor the desert above. Strange. You shake your head. These sands are not your home. 

One of the elders speaks up in their dialect, and the girl replies with a shake of her head as well. A child says something, only to be scolded by another man listening in nearby. The girl speaks again, and then looks at you. “Your name? I am Ma’asha.”

You tell her yours, although voicing it sounds odd as it rolls off your tongue. It’s… uncertain.

The others look between themselves, and their expressions seem like they agree it’s not a Shuriman name. One of the elders walks up and reaches her hand out to you, and reflexively you put yours in hers. They’re dry and a little bit rough, but warm and comforting. She closes her eyes briefly, and you feel a sort of energy radiating off her. Not quite as intense as magic, though it helps you relax. She then turns and speaks to Ma’asha, whose eyes light up.

“Elder Boshir says you’re lost. She would like to help you. We will go to Bel’Zhun in two days―will you come with?”

Lost? That, you are. You don’t know who or where Bel’Zhun is but you’re already more than relieved that they’re not casting you out as a stranger, and agree to the offer immediately. Any help to get out of the ruthless desert. This time, nobody speaks a word of objection, as it appears that Elder Boshir is a commanding figure. You sneak a glance at the elderly woman; she sure doesn’t look very sturdy, so it must be her wisdom. It makes you smile a little.

―――

When night falls, you share a shelter with Ma’asha atop one of the many _dormun_. At first you were skeptical to climb up the massive chitin-plated creature, but after observing the other nomads use pulleys to get themselves you decide that you’re the silly one. Ma’asha’s parents aren’t with her, so while the others share rooms with their family, the two of you are the only ones using this one. As she prepares an extra cot in the room she throws extra clothes and curious questions at you. Questions that you have no answer to.

She’s not the only one to ask you your origins, your family, your goals―the whole band was in on it earlier at dinner. You’d felt much more welcome after Elder Boshir’s open acceptance to your arrival. The men wanted to know your allegiance and background, the women asked whether you’re married, and the children wondered if you’ve seen anything interesting out there. You’ve told them what little you know, in what little you can word. The exchange wasn’t totally useless, though, as you’ve learned a great deal about their tribe and quickly grasped the language better. The words have been with you all along―you just had to remember them.

“For what reason do you travel to Bel’Zhun?” You ask. 

“Keep talking like that and the citymen will think you’re a noble―you’ll get robbed!” Ma’asha teases and you quickly slap a hand over your mouth. The whole group had been quite curious about your speech―why it sounded so formal. You don’t know either, but you can tell that some of them appear somewhat anxious because of it, especially the men. Ma’asha, however, doesn’t look too bothered as she simply laughs it off and sits on her short bed. “We’ve gathered some goods to trade for supplies. It’s not easy living out here, but at least we’re free.”

According to the group, the continent of Shurima has been a wasteland for millenia, with a glorious empire barely remembered through the sandy tombs that one encounters on a blue moon. They’re out here to scavenge anything useful to trade in the port city of Bel’Zhun, which is currently occupied by forces belonging to an empire in the north―Noxus. You’d noticed the visible contempt as they spoke of the name, and had avoided your gaze to the beasts at rest. By the cargo tied to their backs, it appears the tribe was rather successful with their scavenging. 

You think back to the crypt you’d escaped from and wonder if you had lived one such moon―the tribe informed you that the place had been long since abandoned, and that you were lucky to make it out unscathed. Well… unscathed isn’t the most accurate description of what you’d experienced, but you don’t mention anything more than necessary. You’d been transparent about your lack of memory and belongings―they could see so much for themselves―but kept your magical aptitude to yourself. These people just began to warm up to you, and you certainly don’t want them to turn their backs against you again so quickly.

Somehow, stigma to magic is ingrained in your assumptions.

―――

Instead of being totally useless along the trip, you surprise everyone―yourself included―with your seemingly vast knowledge of herbs and medicine. The tribe had been skeptical at first, but your concoctions prove to be quite effective in what you claim they do. It’s not much, but the radiant smile on Ma’asha’s face when you succeed makes you believe that your efforts are worth it.

Many days later, Bel’Zhun appears on the distant horizon, but Elder Boshir tells you that the enormous gates that you see are not the city’s own constructs, but symbols of Noxian occupation. Attempting to look past them, you feel a bit uncomfortable but can’t quite describe it. “Cunning, poisonous bunch,” the men would grumble.

Entry into the city takes a few more days, and you realize as you hop off the last step of the _dormun_ ’s rope ladder how far you’ve been from civilization. The city is bustling with energy, with men and women swarming the roads and merchants everywhere that it was difficult to tell where the bazaars begin and end. Beautiful, vibrant colors―gold, scarlet, and jade―add the splash of spirit needed to _just_ conceal the simmering unrest between Noxians and the local people. You can _feel_ the life―the energy of it―all around you. And it’s wonderful.

“A gorgeous city, isn’t it?” Ma’asha comes up next to you, her gaze fixated on the rumbling crowd. “Too bad that it must endure foreign rule… but not for long.” 

Soon after entry, your lot parades around the area and you are shown many major locations, then you travel into a particularly busy area of the city―if it wasn’t for Ma’asha’s iron grip on your wrist, you would have definitely gotten lost in the crowd. Then, out of nowhere, a few hooded people join your group and converse fervently with the men in the tribe. Their exchange is hushed, but underneath the heavy cloaks you barely catch a glimpse of shimmer. Blades. 

Ma’asha turns to you and smiles, albeit a little sadly. You know what’s coming. “I guess this is where we part ways. But I will help you. Where will you go from here?”

You pause and think for a moment, and decide…

_You will look around the bazaar. Maybe you’ll find something that could relate to your identity. [ Go to **Intrigue** ] _

_You will travel north. Whatever lies there beckons you perversely to approach. [ Go to **Redemption** ] _

_You need something to eat. The bazaar is full of curiosities begging you to try. [ Go to **Adventure** ] _

_You want to explore Shurima some more. There is something… nostalgic about it. [ Go to **Home** ] _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far these are the only 'locations' branches that I plan to write (there will be multiple love interests) but maybe in the future I will add more. For each location from here is a separate work that I'll upload once I have it written lol but they should all be linked in the series, so stay tuned!


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